Off the Clock
by trufflemores
Summary: One would think superpowers came with full immunity to all known sicknesses, but they do not. Fluff 'n' stuff.


Sitting in her chair, elbow on the desk and head-in-hand, The Flash dozes.

His soft snores are the only sound in the CCPN news room. No one else is around; they close up shop around seven. Iris swung by to pick up her work from that afternoon. She wasn't expecting company and doesn't catch the door swinging shut behind her.

It snaps a little too loudly behind her and Iris winces. Sleepy, golden eyes peer from slits at her. Then, blinking fully, he looks up at her and straightens. He smiles. He says in a voice an octave lower than normal, "Hi."

Iris sidles over to him, dropping her satchel on the desk. "Honey, it's two in the morning," she reminds him. She knows he hasn't been sleeping well, hasn't sleep through the night in – three weeks? Something like that. But he can't crash here. It's dangerous. If someone sees him—

He just blinks up at her, her golden-eyed Golden Boy, and she sighs affectionately and cups his face in her hands.

He's burning up.

Frowning, she tucks her thumbs under his cowl and peels it back. Even in the dim street-light pooling in the room, he's visibly flushed. "You okay?" she asks, brushing a hand through his hair. It spikes a little, fever-hot. She kisses his forehead – she doesn't even know why, just knows it's what you do – and he closes his eyes again, reaching up lazily to wrap both arms around her waist.

He doesn't koala like she does, no-space-between them: he's more like a sloth, long-limbed and slow, moving inexorably towards her. He pillows his head on her stomach, purring. It startled her the first time – turns out a good head scratch is enough to set him off – but she kind of loves it now. It's like an off-switch; they can't hold any meaningful conversation when he's all happy silk spilling lazily out across the space next to her. It's the closest he comes to clocking out for the night without falling asleep.

Scratching the back of his neck now doesn't change the intensity of the purrs, soft, warm vibrations making her smile. She gives him a moment, and then she stops and says, "Let's go home." He hums in agreement, but it takes her pulling away and gently tugging on his arms, c'mon, Bar, to get him on his feet. He slumps, and she's tempted to catch him, but the best she can do is tuck an arm around his waist, letting him lean. He looks worse for wear in his suit, badly damaged despite all of the TLC Cisco has dished out on it.

It's the first suit she thinks might be retired before it's destroyed in the field. Neither Cisco nor Barry are eager to take it out of the game ( _if it isn't broke…_ ), but Iris worries about it. She worries about the defibrillator in his chest that could go off any time with the wrong provocation, the comms which could fail at a critical moment, the very fabric of the suit that might ignite or burn through him. She worries about him, more than herself, more than Wally, even.

He yawns with jaw-cracking force, lifts her gently (" _hold onto me_ "), and takes off. Before Iris has taken a deep breath, they're home.

He sets her down and shivers. Iris lets him wander off into the kitchen in search of a midnight snack (or, rather, a post-midnight snack, not to be confused with the pre-breakfast top-off). She drifts over to the thermostat, cranking it up to seventy-five. It's a little stifling for her tastes, but despite the extraordinary warmth Barry projects, he loves it hot. Kind of like a dragon, she muses, turning to face him.

Tipping a box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch towards the ceiling, he empties what's left of it into his mouth, folding the cardboard up and pitching it into the recycling bin when he's done. Opting to be a traditionalist, he pours himself a glass of milk and chugs it down at super-speed, repeating the gesture three or four times before replacing the gallon in the fridge.

"Mm," he sighs, leaning his hands against the island, radiating contentment even from here.

Iris gives him a moment, kicking off her shoes and celebrating the end of _her_ incredibly long day with boy shorts and a tank top (she's learned not to go bra-less after one too many midnight visits from Cisco with an "absolute emergency"). She brushes her teeth, humming along to her favorite song, and at some point Barry wanders into the room, because the next time she looks over her shoulder he's lying on his side on the mattress, tucked under the covers.

She joins him, folding back the comforter so it's entirely in the middle, have-at-it, and under normal circumstances he'd be all over it, a rarity in her blanket-burrito world, but he doesn't take the offering and she doesn't force it. He'll get comfy enough on his own, she reasons, yawning and pulling a single sheet up to her throat, closing her eyes.

She awakes to a sauna, ensconced in his arms. He shivers continuously, amplifying the heat. Iris brushes a thumb across his forearm, half-soothing, half-requesting. "Barry," she says, and again, louder, " _Barry_." She tries to escape on her own, but he's too strong; left with no choice, she pinches him.

He jerks and opens his eyes. "'ris?"

It sounds painful to speak. Her thumb continues its idle patterns against his arm and he makes an inquisitive sound deep in his chest that never fully forms into a word. At last, she says, "You're really hot."

A soft whuff of a laugh accompanies Barry's ponderous movement, letting her go and rolling back onto his side. "I could sleep on the couch?" he offers, and she shakes her head. He can't see it in the dark, so she scoots closer and wraps her arms around his overheating back instead.

"No. You're good," she promises.

Pressing her forehead against his shoulder, she cuddles him like a teddy bear and repeats, "You're good."

He drifts, breathing deepening under her hands. She wants to join him, but she's a little too alert to shut her eyes again, a little too vigilant. Her partner's down – or, at least, not at his finest. It's her job to pick up the slack. He's certainly covered for her countless times.

She wants to keep the guard, but it's impossible to keep her eyes open for long. And once they're closed, it really is a losing game with sleep.

She stirs when he does, his growling stomach driving him off to find a pre-breakfast snack. He usually just wakes up early and cooks a buffet, eating well over half of it and still leaving an unreasonably hearty portion for her, all before the sun is up. This time, she doesn't need to wait long before he's back, still too hot, bunkering down in the blankets even so, shivering.

She doesn't want to wake up just yet, doesn't feel like being a real adult just yet, so she closes her own eyes and follows him down.

Hours later the sun hits her face. She scrunches up her nose. Barry doesn't move, deeply asleep, and she reaches over idly to rest a hand on his back. He's still hot, but he's already cooling down, returning to normal. She envies that about him; a good night of sleep can knock out a ten-day cold in one fell swoop.

Yawning, she crawls out of her own space in bed and ambles around. He's a pretty heavy sleeper, snoozing through most of the meal prep and sauntering in just as she's finishing up her eggs. "Hey," she says, and he hums a greeting, wrapping his arms around her waist from behind and resting his chin on her shoulder. He smells nice, fresh from a two-second shower, petrichor and lightning.

"Good morning," he tells her, voice still husky but improving from its midnight – two AM – low.

Wrapping up, she turns in his arms and drapes her own around his shoulders, holding him there. He blinks warm hazel eyes down at her and smiles, hair spiking. "Ready to save the world?" she asks, letting him go and turning to serve up the eggs.

"Are you?" he replies.

Iris sets the plate down and leans up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. "Always."

By midmorning, she's already getting buzzed by Cisco that they've got a good story to tell, Barry beaming as he wrestles a rather large baby alligator in his arms. "Zoo escapee," he puffs. "Somebody turned 'im loose. Isn't he cute?"

She can't say if the hissing reptile is _cute_ , but she can definitely verify that the boy holding it is.


End file.
